


Unburied Hatchets

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Abusing The Company Slack Channel, Alternate Universe, Dick Pics, Enemies to Lovers, Grindr, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rivalry, Sexting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-07-28 22:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16250780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: Having to work with the enemy is bad enough, but having to work with the enemy after jerking off to his dick pics is a special kind of hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome. Please forgive the short first chapter; just getting the scene set but more's written and ready to go. Feedback is most welcome :)

“So what time are they coming? OW!” Gerard yelps when Luis pinches his ribs. “What was that for?”

“For not listening, probably,” says Leo, calm as ever. “We’re having lunch brought in and they’ll be here at noon.”

“Great. Sitting down with Los Blancos before we’re stuck with them in our offices for the foreseeable future.” Gerard rolls his eyes. “Is Ramos showing his rat face?”

Despite working for the same communications firm, the relationship between the Barcelona and Madrid branches is far from friendly. The animosity goes way back; it started ages before Gerard was hired on but he’s happy to continue the tradition. It helps that Sergio Ramos, his Madrid counterpart, is a contrary asshole on a good day. They’ve never actually met before but their fights in the company Slack channel are legendary and upper management’s had to step in more than once.

It’s kind of fun, actually.

Gerard notices Leo’s expression and pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“No, you won’t.”

He probably won’t.

*

The Madrid contingent arrives right on time.

Gerard can pick out some of their faces on sight; he recognizes Luka Modrić and Marcelo from Skype and he actually gets along with Nacho when he has to, but the rest might as well be strangers. The guy bringing up the rear is...hot. Really hot. His hair is kind of stupid and he’s wearing a black turtleneck under a red blazer, but his features are strong and fit together nicely. His brown eyes are keen, taking in every detail around the room, until he notices Gerard and trips over his own feet.

Gerard can’t help it, he throws his head back and laughs. Aside from smarting pride the guy’s clearly unhurt, dusting himself off and assuring his snickering colleagues he’s okay.

“They’re used to this, aren’t they?” Gerard calls over, and the guy glowers even as Marcelo cracks a crooked smile.

“Sergio has his moments.”

Sergio. Oh, hell. Gerard feels a grin creep across his face. “Sorry, I thought you just said _Sergio Ramos_ made an ass of himself in front of Gerard Piqué.”

A groan goes up from both sides. Gerard waits, ready for Sergio to stomp over and slug him like he’s threatened to do so many times, but instead he clenches his jaw, fixes his jacket, and walks straight-backed over to Gerard without looking him in the face. Gerard opens his mouth to comment, but Sergio sticks out his hand for a shake.

Shrugging, Gerard takes it. Shaking hands with the enemy feels weird, even weirder when Sergio starts jerking his head down at their joined hands and clears his throat loudly. Gerard doesn’t think anything of it until he follows Sergio’s gaze and does a double-take at the tattoo on the back of his hand. Shit. Shit, fuck, no, this cannot be happening, except it’s totally happening. _Shit._

Gerard forces himself to make eye contact and mutters, “Just be cool.”

“Fuck you, I’m totally cool,” Sergio mutters back, tightening his grip.

“Uh, guys?” Leo cuts in. “Lunch is here.”

Sergio drops Gerard's hand like it's diseased and hurries after his colleagues. Gerard can only follow in a haze.


	2. Chapter 2

[ _the night before_ ]

 

So. Grindr.

It’s not the most dignified, but shame and dignity are for lesser mortals, and Sergio’s bored on his first night in Barcelona.

He scrolls his feed. No, no, fuck no... _ seriously? _ No. Just. No. Ew. Scroll, scroll, scroll, nothing.

Sergio keeps going until a bare torso catches his eye. The guy’s tall, lean yet well-muscled, hairless except for the hint of scruff on his neck up where the photo cuts off. His bio reads “Here for a good time, not for a long time,” which makes Sergio laugh out loud. Okay, points for honesty. The guy calls himself G and he’s online now, eight kilometers away.

Fuck it. It’s not like he has anything else to do tonight.

_ r u srsly taking a dig at ur own stamina?  _ he sends.

Almost immediately the message shows up as ‘read.’

_...i’m probably going to regret asking, but can u clarify?  _ G answers, and Sergio grins. Oh, this is going to be fun.

_ ‘here for a good time, not for a long time.’ what is it? performance anxiety? small dick? whatever it is, u gotta sell it. bring the boyz to ur yard. _

_ ur ridiculous. _

“And yet you’re still here,” Sergio murmurs to himself, and re-adjusts the pillow behind his head. 

_ i’m told it’s part of my charm _

_ still waiting on the charm to appear,  _ says G.  _ got a pic of it? _

_ mmm, maybe. full-frontal charm or should i go slow and ease it in? _

_ gimme the best u got. probably isn’t much _

Oh, it’s on now. G’s a challenge and the thrill of the chase hums hot in Sergio’s blood. He palms his cock through his underwear, gives himself a lazy stroke and then another one, enjoying the friction as he starts to harden. He thumbs open the camera app with his free hand, and contemplates his angles for a moment. The lighting in his new bedroom is good, his legs look nice, and his briefs hug his cock perfectly. Yeah, it’s sexy, especially with his hand in the shot to really show off the goods. 

Sergio doesn’t think twice before pressing ‘send.’ 

_ meh,  _ G sends back, and adds,  _ could be better,  _ which is just rude.

_ rly? thanks. _

_ could be in my mouth. _

Oh.  _ yeah?  _ Sergio types.

_ yeah. hard to judge a stranger’s cock just on a pic. gotta take it deep, do my research.  _

Sergio shivers.  _ Research is good. _

_ ur eloquence is astounding. _

_ hey fuck u i’m typing one-handed over here _

_ me too _

The picture G sends takes the sting right out of his snark. Smooth skin, gorgeous well-defined back muscles, dimples above the swell of what promises to be a great ass. Sergio licks his lips.

_ nice. _

_ thanks, i work out,  _ G answers with a winky face and a cheese emoji. Self-awareness shouldn’t be hot on fucking Grindr, but whatever. Sergio isn’t bothered about the particulars. 

_ yeah, you look strong. like you could hold me down and… _

_ and what? _

_ idk i’m not eloquent remember? _

G sends him an eye roll emoji and keeps typing.  _ Tell me what your doing _

_ you’re,  _ corrects Sergio, just to be an asshole.  _ lying in bed, talking to this guy. thinking if he fucks like he talks then he’d be a total tease _

_ but you’d love it _

Sergio pulls his underwear off and starts jacking himself in earnest, because hell yeah, he’d love it. G’s strong, he’s mouthy just like Sergio...there’s just one more thing.

_ Lemme see ur face? _

_ why?  _

Sergio rolls his eyes.  _ so i can see who i’m jerking off to, duh _

_ only if you show me what you’re doing,  _ says G.

_ deal.  _

G sends him a selfie and Sergio almost drops the phone. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a quirkily handsome face with nice messy hair and a beard. Certainly not warm blue eyes. Fuck, okay, G’s hot, hotter than he anticipated. His hand speeds up.

_ c’mon we had a deal _

Oh, yeah, right. Sergio spreads his legs, takes himself in hand, and snaps a picture. 

_ u gonna make fun of me if i say i’m hard for u  _ he asks.

_ maybe later, when i’m not...i wanna see you come. i wanna make you come.  _

_ gettin close,  _ Sergio manages to type. His hand is dry but the lube is still in his bags and it’s easier to imagine being with G in an alley somewhere, behind a bar maybe, somewhere he’d have to spit in his hand to ease the slide. Just like- yeah. That’s better. A little more, just a little more, there it is-

“Fuck!” he cries out, and comes all over his fist. A few drops spatter onto his stomach. Careful not to get jizz on his phone Sergio takes a photo and sends it to G.

_ next time i wanna see you, yeah? _

_ next time? _

Shit. He hadn’t meant to type that.  _ totally. ur hot, i’m hot, let’s have some fun together. _

_ you’re on,  _ says G.  _ fuck, i’m all sticky. talk soon? _

_ yeah. think about me cleaning u up. _

Sergio sends a winky face and a kiss then signs off. Maybe Barcelona won’t be so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard goes through lunch on autopilot. He helps himself to one of everything like normal and tries to remember the right etiquette for a business lunch that doesn’t involve running to the bathroom for a private freak-out. He’s a professional. Like hell is he going to break in front of Ramos.

Everyone makes polite conversation over the meal. Neither side seems interested in stirring the pot so early into their tenure of being stuck together for the foreseeable future. Gerard follows their example and keeps his head down until Leo nudges him under the table.

“You okay? You haven’t made one stupid joke since we sat down.”

“My jokes are great, shut up,” says Gerard, and chances a look at Ramos, who’s thankfully chatting with Modrić.

Leo follows his gaze across the conference table. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Damn Leo for knowing him so well. “I’m fine. Everything’s great,” he says, and stuffs an olive in his mouth to avoid any more questions. 

Gerard finishes his food without tasting any of it. He excuses himself as soon as it’s socially acceptable and hurries up to the fourth-floor supply closet. He’s immediately assailed with the chemical smell of toner cartridges and old pens, but he gulps in the air as he slides down the door and tries to come up with a plan.

God, what a fucking mess. He goes on Grindr for the first time in ages and has some harmless fun only to have it come back and bite him in the ass in the worst possible way. He won’t even have the luxury of forgetting about it, not with Ramos’s stupid fucking rose tattoo right there on his hand where Gerard has to see it. Seriously, who outside of punk bands or the mafia gets hand tattoos?! Leave it to Ramos to make the same dumbass choices about body modification that he does about everything else.

The closet door opens behind him and Gerard falls back with a shout. He manages to catch himself, and turns around to glare at-

“Oh, Christ. Of course it’s you. You’re not supposed to be- wait, how did you even know this was here?”

Ramos doesn’t answer, he just clenches his jaw. “Did you  _ follow _ me?” asks Gerard.

“Fuck off,” snaps Ramos. “Look, last night was a mistake and obviously it’s never happening again-”

“Obviously.”

“So you need to get your shit together-”

“Me?!” Gerard sputters. “I’m not the one who tripped over my own feet when I saw your face, remember?”

“Yeah, because you didn’t see my face last night, did you?”

The memory sends a lightning-sharp bolt of heat through Gerard, but he ignores it. “Thank God I didn’t, otherwise I’d never be able to get it up again.”

Ramos bares his teeth. “Fuck you. I’m still waiting for my balls to re-emerge after they crawled back into my body-”

“SHHH!” Gerard hisses, tense. 

Ramos actually listens to him and shuts up just as Mirela from marketing walks by, her high heels click-clacking across the floor. She gives them a look, but thankfully doesn’t comment. Gerard exhales. Fuck, that was close. 

He gets slowly to his feet. He can’t tower over Ramos, but he doesn’t need to in order to look down on him. “Since one of us needs to be an adult about this and it’s not going to be you,” he starts, “I’m going back to work.”

Gerard takes off at a brisk pace, unsurprised when Ramos falls into stride with him. Good. That means Gerard can take him the long and confusing way through the old corners of the building, just to waste his time and piss him off.

“You’re such an asshole,” Ramos mutters.

Gerard smiles grimly and walks faster.

*

The universe’s campaign against Gerard continues right where it left off when Valverde pops his head out of his office and announces he made dinner reservations for everyone. He turns down Leo’s offer to carpool and decides to walk instead, headphones jammed tight into his ears to block the world out. 

Gerard makes good time on foot. He takes a moment to gather himself and is about to go in when he notices Ramos off to one side near the patio, on the phone and gesturing emphatically.

“-just as bad as I expected. Worse, actually,” Ramos is saying. “We were never gonna be friends, but he’s-” He makes a face like a cat with a freshly-trodden tail. “C’mon, Iker, it’s not my fault.”

Ah. Casilis. That makes more sense. The old head of the Madrid design department is a good man; despite his inexplicable fondness for Ramos he never gave Gerard more shit than necessary and they maintained a mostly cordial working relationship until Iker moved to Portugal. There’s still no word on who’s keeping Los Blancos under control. Only Leo knows, and despite being one of Gerard’s best friends he’s not telling.

Ramos’s face drops when he sees Gerard. “I gotta go. Give Sara my love,” he says, and slips his phone into his jacket.

“How’s Iker?” asks Gerard, and Ramos eyes him suspiciously.

“Were you listening in on my conversation?”

“Oh, please. That implies you’re interesting.”

“You’re such a fucking-” Ramos stops and plasters a smile on his face. “Ah. Messi.”

Gerard turns around to lift a hand in greeting. “Hey, there you are. Is Marc-Andre bringing Luis and Sam?”

Leo nods. “Yeah, they’re already here.” He glances between them. “What’re you two doing out here? Valverde is waiting to formally introduce you, Sergio.”

“Wait, _him?_ ” Gerard frowns. “Why? Everyone already knows who he is.”

He really, really doesn’t like the look on Leo’s face. It’s one he’s learned well over all their long years of friendship, a dangerous cocktail of pity, frustration, and annoyance reserved for when he’s about to make someone mad.

“Leo,” he prompts, “spit it out.”

“Because Sergio’s been promoted, Geri. He’s Madrid’s new head of design.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's not familiar, Slack is a collaboration program with chat, filing sharing, etc. The  
> [Party Parrot](https://cultofthepartyparrot.com/) emojis are real, and they're spectacular.

Sergio’s in such a bad mood he can’t even enjoy the shock on Piqué’s face. There are bad days, there are getting-out-of-bed-was-pointless days, and then there’s today, which keeps redefining clusterfuck every time he turns around. Even Iker’s normally relaxing pep talks do nothing to settle his mood and dinner can’t end soon enough. He grits his teeth through all three courses and hauls ass back to the rental flat he’s sharing with Toni, flopping facedown onto his bed and groaning into his pillow.

*

He manages to get to work early the next day, hair impeccable, outfit perfect, smiling gleaming like the Sevillian sun because he’s a _professional,_ Piqué be damned. First thing’s first though, a 9 AM meeting with Messi to discuss the Clásico project and how best to utilize their combined resources.

Great.

It’s not that Sergio _hates_ Messi, exactly, except that it’s hard not to hate him a little. The guy’s just so damn good at everything; he got the head of design job young, won multiple International Design Awards before he turned 30, and he's only getting better. Messi just sees the world differently in a way no one can hope to replicate and it shows in his work. It’s fucking incredible to watch, and yeah, a bit irritating too, because of course he has to work in fucking Barcelona instead of coming to Madrid like a civilized person.

It doesn’t help that Messi’s not exactly Mr. Personality. He’s quiet where Sergio’s loud, reserved where Sergio is boisterous, and awkward as hell.

There’s a middle ground here somewhere, probably. Maybe.

Sergio declines Messi’s offer of a beverage and sits down at the conference table with his notes.

“I’d like to skip the performance, if possible,” Messi starts, and Sergio frowns, because there’s no way he heard right.

“What? You have to be there when we present to the board, you know that.”

“No, I know. I meant between us. We’ll work better together if we’re not busy trying to pretend like we actually like each other.”

Sergio stares, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come. “So, the sleepover’s cancelled? Pity, I was looking forward to braiding your hair,” he says, and cringes internally. What is he even _saying?_ His nerves make him touchy and the Clásico is a huge deal. He can't fuck this up.

Messi deflates a little, looking down at the table, and Sergio wants to kick himself. It’s one thing to fight with Messi via email over funding and access to the best their firm has to offer. It’s another to be confronted by how fucking earnest the guy really is. God, Sergio hates having a conscience sometimes.

“Messi-”

“Leo.”

Sergio blinks. “What?”

“Call me Leo. You may as well.”

“Okay. Leo. Um, call me Sergio I guess, and yeah, we can. Skip all the bullshit, if you want. It sounds nice, actually.”

Leo - it’s weird to think of him by his first name - relaxes a fraction. “Okay. Good.”

They get down to business after that, thank God. The Clásico project is straightforward enough, designed to highlight and contrast the best of Barcelona and Madrid in a bid for first-ever joint World Design Capital, but it’s a heavy undertaking. Both sides have to perform at their best, and, even more difficult, get along.

They hammer out a basic timeline in a little over an hour. There’s still more to discuss, of course, but it’s a start, and Sergio counts it as a small victory. He gathers up his papers and looks up to find Leo staring at him, unashamed of being caught.

It doesn’t feel creepy or anything and Sergio’s positive Leo’s not checking him out, he’s just doing that thing he does of staring like he’s trying to read Sergio like a book.

“Is working with Geri going to be a problem?”

It takes a second to realize he’s talking about Piqué. “So long as he doesn’t have a problem, I don’t either.”

Leo laughs to himself and takes another sip of tea. “It’s funny, that’s almost exactly what he said about you.”

Sergio doesn’t see the humor.

*

After the meeting he retreats to his temporary desk. Sergio takes a deep breath before opening Slack. The company-wide Workspace is bustling as usual but the Barcelona-Madrid channel is oddly quiet. Piqué, Suárez, and Umtiti are online and Rakitić’s status says WFH; Marcelo, Toni, Luka, Gareth, and the rest of his crew are all online.

Working with Piqué. RIght. Sergio changes his status to ‘online’ and flexes his fingers as he begins to type.

 **Sergio Ramos:** Good morning, everyone.

 **Marcelo Vieira:** Hey, capi.

 **Luka Modrić:** *waves*

 **Gareth Bale:** Yeah, hi, what’s with the formality?

Sergio groans. God, he just had to do this the hard way, and now he looks like an asshole.

 **Sergio Ramos:** I wanted to let you all know I’m going location scouting today, so I’ll be out of the office most of the afternoon. I’d like @gpique3 to come with me.

For a moment the channel is dead silent, then it explodes. A shocked emoji appears under Sergio’s last missive, some eyes, a bomb, and the party parrot.

_Several people are typing…_

**Marcelo Vieira:** *gets popcorn*

_Luka Modrić and Gerard Piqué are typing…_

**Gerard Piqué:** Why?

 **Sergio Ramos:** Because one of us has to be the bigger man and make peace for the good of the company, duh.

This earns him some fire, a kissy face, even the dreaded Guy Fieri party parrot makes an appearance courtesy of Isco. Sergio sits up a little straighter. A chance to take the moral high ground _and_ rub it in Piqué’s face in public? Hell yes. Maybe the day is looking up.

 **Gerard Piqué:** Fine. But I’m driving.

 **Sergio Ramos:** Like hell you are.

 **Gerard Piqué:** Whatever.

_Several people are typing…_

**Sam Umtiti:** Marcelo, pass me some popcorn?

 **Marcelo Vieira:** Don’t worry. I brought enough to share.


	5. Chapter 5

In the end Gerard gets to drive after he agrees to let Ramos pick the music. After a traffic jam and half a migraine’s worth of too-loud flamenco he’s starting to reconsider.

“How do you listen to this?” he grouses under his breath. “Fucking awful.”

Ramos flips him off. “Make a left at the light,” he says, as if Gerard doesn’t know that already.

“Thanks, it’s not like I live here or anything.”

“Look, living in a city doesn’t automatically mean you know how to get everywhere.”

“Maybe you don’t,” says Gerard, “but I’ve lived here my whole life. I have a pretty good idea of what I’m doing.”

“You’re from Barcelona?” Ramos asks. “Originally?”

“Yeah. My family’s been here a long time- wait, why am I telling you this?”

Gerard shakes his head and whips the car into a parking space with more force than necessary. He hates La Rambla on a good day, but now, in the midst of tourist season, it’s overrun. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and he curses his lack of foresight at not bringing a bottle of water or something. He flings Ramos his messenger bag and stalks over to stand in the shade.

“You wanna tell me what’s crawled up your ass and died, Piqué?” Ramos calls after him. 

“Just do your scouting quickly so we can get out of here,” answers Gerard. “Heart of the city...bullshit.”

Ramos throws his hands up. “Fine, Mr. Barcelona, where do you suggest we go instead, huh?”

“Somewhere that’s not swarming with tourists.” He wrinkles his nose at a passing group of teenagers yelling in loud German. “Somewhere with actual Catalan people.”

“Like where?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, my parents’ house,” snaps Gerard without thinking, and to his horror Ramos nods.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

“No.”

“Why not? This is your city, remember? You have a pretty good idea of what you’re doing.” 

Ramos smirks, clearly pleased with himself for parroting Gerard’s own words back at him. Gerard wants to smack the smugness right off his face. Like  _ hell  _ is Gerard bringing Ramos into his family’s home. Ramos belongs far,  _ far  _ away from the things that Gerard associates with good and warm and safe, and besides, Gerard’s always prided himself on leaving his professional life at the office.

_ Too late for that,  _ a treacherous little voice at the back of his mind whispers. Gerard ignores it.

“God, I fucking hate you,” he says.

That just seems to please Ramos more, and he laughs. “Yeah, you hate me so much you got off-” 

He catches himself and makes a croaking sound like a constipated bullfrog. Gerard would laugh if he wasn’t just as horrified, because of course Ramos is using _that_ hand to rub his face, the one with the stupid rose tattoo that looked so good wrapped around-

Enough. Fuck, enough. Gerard is done thinking about Ramos’s cock now, hopefully done forever.

“Fine. You drive, though, I need to warn my family.”

*

Much to Gerard’s dismay, his mother is waiting outside the house for them. She looks far too happy at this turn of events; usually she’s at the hospital on Wednesdays yet here she is, blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Nice of you to drop in, Geri,” she greets, kissing both of his cheeks.

He returns the gesture absentmindedly and switches to Catalan. “I’m sorry about this, we won’t stay long-”

She’s not listening. Instead she’s moving towards Ramos, beaming as she extends a hand in welcome. 

“So this is the infamous Sergio Ramos. I never thought I’d get to put a face with the name.”

Ramos looks just as awkward as Gerard feels, but he shakes her hand and inclines his head politely.

“Thank you for having us, Senyora Bernabéu.”

His Catalan accent is atrocious. The gesture of trying is...classy, actually, which is not a word Gerard ever expected to associate with Sergio Ramos.

“You’re here to scout locations for your project, right? Geri, why not take Sergio back into the orchard?”

Three orange trees hardly constitute an orchard, but it’s a good idea, so Gerard jerks his head towards the back of the house and motions for Ramos to follow him. The wind ruffles his hair as he walks. It’s a nice day to be outside, sunny but not as hot as it could be, with the fresh smell of living things all around him. On a whim Gerard touches the middle tree, the one he always called Niku growing up. The bark against his fingertips carries the same sense memories from his youth, rough and unchanged even as the world has become a different place. It feels like home and he takes the comfort for what it is.

“It’s nice out here,” Ramos muses, and Gerard snorts. 

“What, did you think I was raised in a barn?”

“You act like you were,” he says, but he’s smiling a little.

Gerard ignores him and keeps walking. When he looks up Ramos is watching him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. Gerard doesn’t look away but Ramos doesn’t drop his gaze or pretend he’s not staring. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

A spark passes between them, quick as a lightning bolt.

His mother’s voice shakes Gerard back to common sense. “Geri, I’m making an early lunch, do you have time to eat or are you headed back soon?”

Gerard shares a look with Ramos. Just a regular look, thank God. “Lunch sounds great.” he calls back. To Ramos, he adds, “Don’t bitch, it’s a free meal.”

“Do you hear me bitching?”

Ramos turns and walks back toward the house without waiting for an answer. Gerard shakes his head and hurries to catch up.

*

“It’s not like we got anything useful. Don’t get me wrong, I never turn down a home-cooked meal, but we just wasted an hour,” Gerard says after they’ve eaten and said their goodbyes. 

He’s full and happy, with a takeaway dish of suquet de peix to have later. Sitting around a table with Ramos and his mother had been far less awkward than he’d anticipated, with Ramos on good behavior and his mom’s ability to charm just about everyone she meets. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. 

Ramos shakes his head.  “No we didn’t. Landmarks and architecture are only the outer layer of a city’s soul. People...how they interact with those things, for better or worse, and how they interact with each other throughout daily life, that’s where you can really hear the city’s heart beat.”

“That’s...shockingly well-spoken, Ramos.”

“Oh, get over yourself and call me Sergio,  _ Gerard.  _ I just had lunch with your mother, for Christ’s sake.”

Gerard refrains from mentioning it’s hardly the most intimate thing they’ve ever done together. 

“Besides,” Sergio continues, “your mom likes me. She said I’m the nicest Andalusian she’s ever met.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” laughs Gerard, but it’s less malicious than it would have been an hour ago.

“Whatever. Give me the keys, I’m driving.”

“Fine, but I get to pick the music this time.”

They bicker all the way back to the office and only resort to name-calling once. It might be actual progress.


	6. Chapter 6

The weeks pass easily enough. Barcelona isn’t Madrid, but Sergio settles in as best as he can. Sharing a flat with Toni isn’t too bad; Toni spends a lot of time over at Isco’s place, sending Isco’s flatmate Marcelo over to Sergio’s, which means Luka inevitably follows.

Even working with the culés every day is less terrible than he’d anticipated. Everyone is finally off their best don’t-rock-the-boat behavior and the Slack channel is back to its usual mess of memes, insults, and occasional real work. Sergio says a silent thanks that Pepe isn’t with them anymore. Sure, he was mostly a good colleague, but he could annoy the pants off the Pope if he put his mind to it, and that’s not what the Clásico project needs.

He clicks back into Slack right at the tail end of a national anthem debate.

 **Toni Kroos:** Germany’s isn’t boring and I’m done talking to you heathens, especially since ter Stegen is useless here.

A middle finger reaction emoji from ter Stegen and some eyeballs from Umtiti. A laughing face from Messi, which Sergio wasn’t expecting.

 **Ivan Rakitić:** Tell the world that a Croat loves his people.

 **Luka Modrić:** *sheds a patriotic tear*

Marcelo, being Marcelo and crazy about Luka, reacts with a Croatian flag. A thread immediately pops up under the comment, probably them being gross at each other. Sergio ignores it.

 **Gareth Bale:** Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, boys. Mic. Drop.

 **Gerard Piqué:** I see your Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, Bale, and I offer Els Segadors in solidarity. *raises fist*

_Gareth Bale is typing..._

Okay, it’s definitely time to step in here, before the conversation devolves into politics and derails whatever productivity has happened today.

 **Sergio Ramos:** Great, guys, thanks, awesome to see we’re all sharing about our countries, but unless @leomessi has any objections then I want my team in the 3rd floor north conference room in five minutes for a status update.

_Several people are typing…_

**Lionel Messi:** That room should be free.

_Several people are typing…_

**Sergio Ramos:** Five. Minutes.

 **Gerard Piqué:** /giphy Did I Stutter?

Sergio reacts with a custom jockstrap emoji, then closes his laptop. He’s got a meeting to oversee.

*

The team files into the conference room mostly on time. Sergio notes they all stopped by the break room to refill their mugs or grab snacks.

“No one brought me anything?” he asks, and barely manages to catch the banana Isco throws at his face. “Thank you.”

“Welcome, capi!”

They look at him expectantly and Sergio can’t help but grin. He wouldn’t trade them for anything.

“Let’s start with the basics. Talk to me, what’ve you got?”

Luka raises his hand. “Ivan thrifted an old Polaroid camera and a bunch of film. We’re putting together some timelapses with my equipment and we’re going to blend the styles. We want to show the city through many eyes.”

“Good.” Sergio points to Toni. “How’s your street style angle coming along?”

“Better than I thought, actually. We’re really getting a feel for the people and the vibe.”

It sounds like marketing bullshit, but Sergio’s worked with Toni long enough to trust him and let him do his thing.“Got any good stories lined up?”

Toni nods and launches into a brief overview of the pop-up boutiques around the city. It works well and they’ll be able to do a companion angle later if the project needs to relocate back to Madrid. Toni, being Toni _,_ even managed to befriend an older woman with years of advanced style insight. He promises to take ter Stegen along next time as a videographer.

“What about Piqué?” asks Thibaut. “He’s the best editor on either team, right? He can put their footage together.”

“If you ask him nicely, Sergio,” says Luka.

Sergio narrows his eyes. Luka’s as placid as ever; if it was Marcelo or any of the others Sergio would be instantly suspicious, but Luka is nothing but professional during work hours.

“He’ll do it because it’s his job, not because I ask him to,” Sergio says, and offers what he hopes is a quelling look.

Toni nods. “Uh huh.”

“Totally,” adds Gareth, smirking.

Sergio manages to wrangle the conversation back on track and in the end he’s pleased with the team’s progress. They all have their strengths, weaknesses, and oddities, and Mother Mary herself knows they give him at least a headache a day, but they’re damn good at what they do and Sergio doesn’t have to babysit them in order for the work to get done.

Finally he calls it to a close, as they debate the merits of getting their football fix by venturing into the hated Camp Nou.

“You know what, get out of my sight and get back to work,” says Sergio, and flaps a hand at the door. “I’m going to go update Messi, see if he knows a guy who knows a guy who can get us game tickets.”

The team cheers and files out, chatting merrily. Sergio waits until they’re gone, then allows himself to exhale.

*

Wednesday night brings...nothing. Even a long workout in the office gym before coming home did nothing to quell Sergio’s restlessness, and he’s _bored,_ damnit. He’s not a big reader and there are no books in the rented flat anyway, Toni’s playing Fortnite so the TV is occupied, and he’s already emptied his Netflix queue. Ugh.

Sergio doesn’t bother getting dressed after finally hauling his lazy ass into the shower, opting instead to curl up in his bathrobe and flop on his bed, phone in hand. He gets bored after a couple rounds of Clash of Clans then clicks out, sighing. He checks Instagram and rolls his eyes when he sees another message from his ex. They’re long over and haven’t had an actual conversation in years, but Fernando insists on sending semi-regular updates of his life in Japan. It always puts Sergio in a sour mood.

After deleting the message and clicking back to the home screen he sorts through his apps for notifications, finding none. There, on the last screen, is Grindr. Fuck, why didn’t he delete it after last time? Sergio’s thumb hovers over the icon. Oh, this is stupid. He opens the app and scrolls, bored. At least Gerard’s profile was interesting. He was funny, he was hot…

Sergio groans. It’s not like he expected to just forget about what happened when he has to deal with Gerard every day, but he’d hoped to develop a tolerance, or something. Instead it’s just getting worse.

He keeps scrolling. G, online, eight kilometers away.

Clicking is a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea.

 _u have work tomorrow,_ Sergio sends.

 _thanks mom so do u,_ answers Gerard.

_ok ew i’ve met ur mom, she’s a great lady and we’re not talking about her on fucking grindr_

_...ok ur right_

In spite of himself Sergio cracks a smile. _can i get that in writing on slack tomorrow?_

_as if_

Toni knocks on the open door and Sergio startles, dropping his phone.

“You want dinner?” Toni asks with a sardonic look in his eye. “I was gonna order pho.”

“Yeah, yeah, get me some spring rolls too.”

Gerard’s offline when Sergio looks back at Grindr. He’s not disappointed; he wasn’t lying about them both having to work tomorrow so it makes sense to get off the phone and get some sleep. Nope. Totally not disappointed. It’s fine. He flips back through their message history up to Gerard’s selfie.

It’s different to look at it now. Sergio knows the contours of his face better and he’s learned to read Gerard’s smiles. There’s the ‘I’m fucking with you and waiting for it to click’ smile, the ‘I think you’re being an idiot but it’s funny to watch’ smile, then there’s the genuinely happy one that lights up his face like it was made for joy. This one isn’t any of those. It’s shy, a little cocky, daring the viewer to make a move. No wonder it got him off like a rocket.

Sergio sighs. This is twelve different kinds of bullshit and not helping anything. He scrolls back down, and there’s a message waiting for him:

_if u wanna talk like a normal human being, here’s my #_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sergio on the treadmill in his shorts and socks is a thing that happened...](https://za.as.com/za/2017/07/10/football/1499711744_356978.html)

_ok so help me out here_

Gerard rolls his eyes. Bullshitting with Sergio over text right before bed is becoming a habit. _what, tio?_

_who on ur team is fucking?_

_seriously? u think i pay attention?_

_i know u do,_ Sergio answers, would be rude as shit if it wasn’t true. _spill. need the deetz._

_y r u like this?_

Gerard runs through the list in his head. There have been several casual hookups over the years, but a lot of the guys are straight, or married, or both. _no one, really. we’re not oversexed like los blancos._

He can practically hear Sergio rolling his eyes. _ha, ha. very funny._

_i thought so. Sergi’s happy with his wife and Muppet dog, Ivan and Luis are married with kids, Marc’s not-boyf is in England._

_what about messi_

Gerard snorts. Sergio’s guess is as good as anyone’s. _y? want me to write him a note for u?_

A string of middle-finger emojis, then, _got a hunch. maybe i’ll tell u sometime._

Damnit, now he’s curious. _i’ve known leo since we were teenagers. me, cesc, david, even kun, none of us can get it out of him,_ says Gerard.

_that’s bc you’re all thinking too narrow. gotta get abstract._

_whatever, deep thinker. i’m going to bed._

*

“So are you two friends now?” Leo asks on their way down to their company’s gym the next morning.

“No. It’s just easier to keep him talking instead of trying to start and stop a conversation. Otherwise it gets weird the next morning. What?” he asks when Leo’s mouth quirks up. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing. I’m glad you morning-afters with Sergio aren’t awkward,” says Leo.

Gerard punches his shoulder. “Oh, shut up. You know it’s not like that,” he says, and holds the door open for Leo like the wonderful friend he is.

They just missed the early-bird workout rush and so the gym is mostly empty, except for a shirtless guy with a great body on one of the treadmills. He looks familiar, though, almost like-

“Is that Ramos?” asks Leo.

Gerard swallows and nods, not trusting himself to speak. Sergio’s clearly been at it for a while; his hair is sweaty and his face is flushed with exertion. He’s glistening, Gerard thinks stupidly, and mentally slaps himself. Get it together, Piqué.

Sergio looks over at them and waves without breaking his stride. He’s...fuck Gerard’s entire life, he’s wearing a tiny pair of neon yellow shorts and matching knee-high socks like something out of a mid-90’s jock porn. It’s almost as if Sergio can hear his thoughts; he straightens up, chest out, shoulders back, showing off.

He’s gorgeous, terrible tattoos and all. Gerard wants to...Gerard _wants._

Fingers snap in his face. “Earth to Gerard, come in,” says Leo. “Piqué phone home?”

Gerard slaps Leo’s hand away and clears his throat. Shit, he can’t lose it like that again. “Shut up, _pulga_ , or I won’t spot your lifts.”

“I’m almost done,” Sergio calls over as he powers the treadmill down to a brisk walk. “Once I cool off the room’s all yours.”

Leo’s laughing at him, Gerard can feel it despite his friend’s silence. He ignores it and goes over to the corner to stretch. The familiarity helps him recenter, at least until a pair of yellow-clad legs appear in his vision.

“Sergi gave me a lead on a new restaurant that's a great fit for El Clásico,” says Sergio. “Want to come be my token Catalan?”

Gerard flips him off lazily. “If you're nice about it,” he answers, and squints at Sergio’s leg. “Is that a horse tattoo? Oh my god, are you twelve?”

“Shut up, they're majestic animals!”

“Uh huh. What time are we going to this restaurant of yours, pony boy?”

Sergio stretches. “Around four, for drinks and tapas so we can people-watch.” He lifts his arms above his head. Gerard very carefully doesn’t stare. “I’m driving.”

He walks off without waiting for an answer. Gerard just shakes his head.

“Geri-”

“Shut up, Leo,” he says without heat.

“I was just going to ask for my earbuds back, but if you need a minute…” Leo trails off, all innocence that Gerard doesn't buy for a second.

“Here.” He tosses Leo his earbuds. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.”

*

Hours later, Gerard finds himself in front of a closed restaurant, staring through the window front at unmade tables and rolls of flatware.

“Sergio.”

“Don't say it.”

Gerard grins. “What time does this place open, Sergio?”

“Tomorrow at two because they're closed on Tuesday, yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” His mouth twitches. “Okay, it is kind of funny.”

“What, that you can't read?” asks Gerard, laughing when Sergio elbows him in the ribs. “Shit happens, don't worry about it. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Okay, that’s-” Sergio’s phone rings. “Shit, sorry.”

Sergio answers the call without looking, but he barely gets as far as “Hello?” before his face darkens. “I told you not to- ugh.”

He sags in defeat and runs one hand through his hair, pacing away. Gerard frowns and follows.

“Everything okay?” he mouths to Sergio, who just holds his hand up in dismay and jerks his head at the phone.

“No. Because I said no, Nando,” he’s saying in an increasingly frustrated tone. “I don’t want to see you, hell, you know I don’t even wanna _talk_ to you. I have to go. No, you know what, fuck it, I _want_ to go, so I’m going.”

Gerard watches him hang up as viscously as one can hang up an iPhone. He gives Sergio a moment to gather himself, then says,

“Do I want to ask, or is this, ‘fuck off, Geri’ stuff?”

Sergio laughs mirthlessly. “It’s fine. My ex boyfriend is just a jackass, that’s all.”  
  
He looks a little raw around the edges in a way Gerard doesn’t like. He instantly dislikes the aforementioned ex for upsetting Sergio, especially since he has a sinking feeling where Sergio’s heart lies on the matter.

“You still love him,” he says softly.

“No. Not for a while. It just sucks to be reminded of the past, I guess.” Sergio sits down on a nearby bench and nods for Gerard to join him. “I thought we’d be together forever, you know? And then he just...left. Moved to London, then to Japan, walked away from our life together like it was nothing and now he still can’t understand why I don’t wanna stay friends. Fuck off with that shit.”

“Does he call often?” asks Gerard.

“Nah, he DM’s me on Instagram a few times a year where I can just delete it no problem, but he’s back in Madrid for a visit and wanted to have a drink to catch up. Even if I was in Madrid right now, no. Hell no.”

“Absolutely not,” Gerard agrees. “He should respect your wishes and leave you the fuck alone.”

Sergio just nods, still looking at the ground.

“At least in the old days you could be all dramatic about hanging up on somebody, you know? Snap it shut and make that great noise. Now all you do is jam your finger on the screen.”

That earns him a small smile from Sergio. It’s not a full smile, but it’s a start and Gerard will take it any day over him looking miserable. Sergio upset, actually upset, feels wrong somehow.

“You know what, gimme your phone.”

“Why?”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Just do it.”

Sergio hands it over. Gerard thumbs open the camera, turns it to face them, and drapes one arm around Sergio’s shoulders, kissing his cheek just in time to snap a picture and text it to the most recent number in Sergio’s call list.

“There. Now he’ll leave you alone,” he says, and hands the phone back.

Sergio just stares at him, wide-eyed. Gerard fidgets. Shit, did he overstep? He hates seeing people hurt, that’s all, it’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Sam or Leo or anyone else he cares about. He runs a hand through his hair, ready to suck it up and apologize, but Sergio beats him to it.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and this time there’s a definite smile.

That’s...good. Yeah. Good. Okay. Gerard can work with good. “No problem. Wanna pretend like we don’t watch what we eat and go get some ice cream?”

Sergio stares at him for a moment longer, then nods. “You buying?”

“If you let me pick the music.”

“Fine, but that means I’m driving,” says Sergio, and just like that, things are back to normal.


	8. Chapter 8

Much to Sergio’s surprise, Gerard’s idea actually works. Fernando doesn’t call or test or message him on Instagram, not even to ask about Sergio’s new ‘boyfriend.’ Which Gerard definitely isn’t. Ew.

Sergio mulls over deleting the picture after pulling it up on his phone yet again. It’s not even a great shot of him; he looks more surprised than happy to be the object of Gerard’s affection, hell, if anything he looks kind of freaked out. It looks spontaneous, though, not staged at all, and it might come in handy again.

He better save it, just in case.

*

Sergio sleeps in late on Saturday morning. He hauls himself out of bed and into the kitchen, unsurprised to find Luka seated at the kitchen table while Marcelo makes omelettes. 

“Coffee’s on, capi,” says Marcelo, gesturing with his spatula. 

Sergio grunts his thanks and pours himself a mug. He slumps down next to Luka and stares off into space while the caffeine does its job. They know better than to talk to him just yet; Sergio savors the peace while his friends chat softly. A cup and a half later he feels awake enough to go shower and make overtures toward starting his day properly. Sergio doesn’t linger under the spray like he normally does, just washes his hair and soaps up while the steam does its work. 

Marcelo’s hovering near the bathroom when Sergio opens the door. “Hey, so.”

“So what?” asks Sergio, rubbing a towel over his hair before twisting it up into a turban.

“It’s Luka’s and my anniversary tonight. We’re not going all-out or anything, just drinks and a nice dinner somewhere, then…” Marcelo wiggles his eyebrows, “see how the night goes.”

They share a grin in the mirror. Sergio nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Yeah, so, uh, just warning you, in case things get a little-”

“Loud,” puts in a passing Luka, and Marcelo smiles after him. 

“So if you wanted to go someplace else for a bit…”

Oh. Yeah, okay, good idea. Sergio nods. “No problem. Just text me when it’s safe to come back, that way you guys get your privacy and I get to avoid the emotional scarring.”

Marcelo yanks Sergio’s towel turban off. “Emotional scarring, right. Like the time I walked in on-”

“You saw  _ nothing, _ ” Sergio laughs, and snatces his towel back. “Ugh, fuck off so I can do my hair.”

Cackling, Marcelo slaps Sergio’s ass and strolls off. 

Since it’s Saturday Sergio doesn’t care too much about his hair beyond a good shape and some flair; he styles it one-handed while voice-dictating texts to his phone, trying to find someone to hang out with tonight. Office hierarchies die as soon as they step out of work, thank God, Sergio’s not the boss anymore, he’s just one of the guys like he was for so many years. He’s grateful they haven’t treated him any differently since he took the Head of Design job.

Not being treated any differently does mean his friends are still dicks, though, and got tickets to that night’s Espanyol match without telling him. Isco, Gareth, Nacho, Toni, and Kaylor are all going and Thibault’s parents are visiting for the weekend, so that leaves him on his own. Shit.

He goes to get dressed. There’s always...Sergio groans. Ugh, fuck. His options are looking increasingly grim; at least if he texts Gerard there’s a chance he won’t wind up alone in a dive bar somewhere. 

_ u busy tonight?  _

There. It’s simple and casual. Easy.

_ yeah kinda, why? _

“Damnit Geri, don’t ask questions,” Sergio mutters, and sends back,  _ i’m being sexiled _

His phone rings a moment later. Sergio picks up, but all he can hear is laughter. “Dude, it’s not that funny.”

“Oh no, it totally is. How does this even happen?”

Sergio fights to keep the smile off his face. “It’s Luka and Marcelo’s anniversary, which means they’re going to be fucking all night-”

“But you live with Toni,” says Gerard.

“Yeah, well, I did, but he’s practically moved in with Isco, and Marcelo got tired of listening to them go at it, so he took Toni’s old room, and now-”

“Now you’re stuck listening to him and Luka,” finishes Gerard, and promptly dissolves into laughter again. “Oh my god, what is wrong with Los Blancos? You’re a soap opera!”

“You’re just jealous,” says Sergio airily. “So what are we doing tonight?”

He can practically hear Gerard roll his eyes. “You’re gonna muscle your way in no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

“Sure am. Within reason, I mean, no christenings or funerals or anything.”

“Fine. Text me your address and I’ll pick you up around seven, and no bitching, got it?”

“Wait, what am I not bitching about?”

“Bye, Sergio,” singsongs Gerard, and hangs up.

*

Gerard doesn’t respond to any of Sergio’s texts about what to wear, so he settles on a black turtleneck, leather jacket, and his favorite checkerboard pants. Luka and Marcelo are already gone; he paces around the flat half-listening to the football game on TV. He’s not nervous, he just doesn’t like going into situations blind, that’s all. 

Finally, just after seven, he gets a message:  _ outside, hurry up. _

Sergio rolls his eyes but goes for the door, stopping only to grab his keys and check his hair one last time. All good. Okay. His heart isn’t beating any faster because of Gerard. That would be stupid. 

“You look- oh my  _ God,  _ Sese, what is wrong with your pants?” exclaims Gerard as soon as Sergio slides into the passenger seat.

“What?” Sergio looks down at himself and doesn’t comment on the nickname. “ _ Somebody _ didn’t feel like answering my texts about what we’re doing tonight, so I had to improvise.” 

He peers over at Gerard, who...looks good. Unfairly good, actually. A nice black blazer, slacks, and a cream button-down that warms his skin tone. No tie, hair still stupid. It’s that type of effortlessly handsome bullshit Sergio likes to make fun of, but Gerard pulls it off, because of course he does. They make eye contact in the mirror, then Gerard puts his car back into gear and peels off. 

“Are you seriously not going to give me any idea about what the fuck I’m getting myself into, here?” Sergio asks.

“We’re going to a benefit for my mother’s hospital,” says Gerard. “This isn’t the big annual one, it’s basically a glorified cocktail party with free food and booze. Guess what it’s called.”

Sergio shrugs. “You said the drinks are free, so I don’t really care.” He glances over and sees the shit-eating grin on Gerard’s face. “Oh god, tell me.”

“Giving Back. Because it’s a spinal hospital. Get it?”

Sergio groans. “That’s  _ awful. _ ” He holds a straight face for all of five seconds before chuckling. “Who approves this shit, honestly?”

“The same people who can say things like ‘market verticals’ and still respect themselves in the morning,” says Gerard, and Sergio huffs his agreement. 

*

Puns and peculiarities aside, Sergio has to admit Giving Back has a great setup. The hospital rented the back room of a neighborhood restaurant and transformed it into a chic intimate space packed with well-dressed people. An open bar and a tapas buffet attract plenty of attention, while waiters with trays of champagne move through the crowd. Sergio breathes a sigh of relief. He’s not underdressed, thank God.

“Want a drink?” asks Gerard, nodding towards the bar.

Sergio nods. “Vodka soda with lime.”

It’s not until Gerard heads for the queue that Sergio realizes his error: he’s alone in a crowd of strangers, most of whom aren’t speaking a language he understands. It’s fine, it’s only natural to hear Catalan here, but he can’t help but feel out of place, especially since he wasn’t technically invited. He leans against a column and tries to act nondescript, playing with his phone until a female voice calls his name.

“Sergio!”

It’s Gerard’s mother. Shit. Right, of course, she’s a doctor, of course she’d be here, but she looks happy to see him. Her blonde hair is clipped back away from her face and yet again Sergio’s struck by how much of Gerard he sees in her eyes, in her smile.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” she continues, shaking his hand.

“Neither did I, Senyora Bernabéu,” he answers, but she waves off the formality.

“Call me Montserrat, please. How are you? Are you and your colleagues feeling more settled here in Barcelona?”

He forgot how easy she is to talk to, and by the time Gerard comes back with their drinks Sergio’s deep in conversation with Montserrat about her work at the hospital and the perils of fundraising. 

“I hate to interrupt,” Gerard drawls, and passes Sergio his drink. “Hi, mama.”

“Hi, Geri. You didn’t tell me you’d have a plus one tonight.”

It might just be the lighting, but Sergio swears Gerard flushes a little. “I don’t. I have an uninvited guest, like...oh, what’re they called again? Those things that hitch rides and stuff on other animals?”

Sergio makes a face at him. “Did you just compare me to a parasite?”

“No, I think you did,” laughs Gerard.

“Takes one to know one,  _ put-,  _ um, punk,” says Sergio, but that just makes Gerard laugh harder. 

It’s deeply unfair that his blue eyes get to light up with mischief while Sergo can’t even sling his best comeback without saying something rude in front of Montserrat. He hides his smile in his drink.

After a bit more conversation Montserrat leaves them to mingle with the other guests. Sergio smiles after her. He really should call his own mom soon, maybe plan a trip back to to Seville once the Clásico project is finished. Not for the first time he laments his work taking him away from home. He doesn’t regret it, not quite, but there’s always a tradeoff.

“Hey.” Gerard nudges him gently. “What’re you thinking about?”

Sergio shakes his head a little. “Nothing. Wanna be a good host and escort me to the buffet? I could murder some of those pa amb tomàquets.”

“Like you just murdered their pronunciation? C’mon.” 

Gerard gives him a mock-bow and holds out his arm. Not to be outdone, Sergio executes his finest matador flourish. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile as he tucks his hand neatly in the crook of Gerard’s elbow. When was the last time he could let go and just...have  _ fun  _ with someone like this? Fuck it. No point in overanalyzing a good thing, Sergio thinks to himself, then puts it out of his mind as Gerard hands him a plate. 

They don’t notice Montserrat watching them from across the room, smiling faintly. 

*

Sergio’s not drunk by the time the event winds down, but after two more vodka sodas he can feel the warmth in his face and the looseness in his speech. He’s still in control, though, so he’s not worried. Not like the time he rambled at Xabi Alonso about shelter dogs for a solid 15 minutes instead of wooing him back to Madrid like Iker told him to.

He swipes one more olive then goes with Gerard to say goodbye to Montserrat. Sergio starts a little when she kisses his cheeks like she does Gerard’s, but he recovers and returns the gesture easily. It’s been a good night. He’s happy.

The cool air is heaven on his face. Sergio takes a deep breath, savors the city in his lungs. 

“I was just thinking,” Gerard starts, “if Luka and Marcelo aren’t done yet I know a nice little bar around here where we could go grab a nightcap, if you want.”

Sergio’s pulse does that stupid thing again of speeding up around Gerard. He’s not ready for the night to be over. 

“Hang on, lemme…” He pulls out his phone and reads the  _ all clear  _ from Marcelo, accompanied by a troubling string of emojis. God, his friends are the worst. 

Gerard raises an eyebrow at him. “Lemme guess...peach and eggplant emojis galore?”

“Winky faces and sweat drops, which is so much worse because it’s  _ Luka and Marcelo.  _ Ugh.”

Gerard laughs and moves closer. Sergio holds his breath and hides his phone. This is the part where Gerard puts a hand on the small of his back, right? Or at least touches him again. He waits but it doesn’t come, and he tries not to look too disappointed.

“C’mon,” says Gerard. “We can go have a drink, then I’ll take you home. Sound good?”

Sergio licks his lips just to watch Gerard’s eyes follow the motion. “Sounds good.”


	9. Chapter 9

Gerard stays in bed Monday morning even after his last alarm goes off. He’s been awake for an hour with one arm flung over his eyes, unwilling to face the day just yet. Fuck, he’s pathetic, anxious and losing sleep over nothing. It’s just Sergio. He’ll come to his senses soon enough. He has to.

Eventually he gets up and puts the coffee on to brew while he gets dressed. There’s no time for breakfast; he tosses some fruit into his bag, fills up his travel mug, and sets off after texting Leo that he’ll be there in half an hour. He thinks about texting Sergio, but tosses the thought away. 

*

There’s a croissant waiting on Gerard’s desk when he gets into the office. Just the pastry and a paper napkin, no note or anything to indicate where it came from. Gerard looks around for any likely suspects and finds none, although the Madristas clustered nearby look a little shifty.

“You know there are witnesses everywhere if you poisoned me,” he says, and salutes them with the croissant before taking a bite and nodding his approval. 

Toni’s expression softens as much as Gerard’s ever seen it and Gareth nudges a grinning Marcelo. Gerard shakes his head. They’re all weirdos, but he ignores them and focuses on getting his day started. Gerard gets halfway through his emails before Luka comes over and takes a seat on the corner of the desk, waiting calmly to be acknowledged.

“Yes, the croissant was delicious,” says Gerard without looking up just yet, “and yes, I’m still alive. The next time you all decide to poison me, maybe try a xuixo, though. More local, y’know?”

“I’ll tell Sergio for the next time he decides to bring you breakfast,” Luka answers with a soft laugh, and Gerard’s head jerks up.

“That was from Sergio?”

Luka shrugs. “We picked up a dozen for the team on the way in this morning. I guess he saved you one.” 

Gerard gets the distinct feeling he’s being sized up. He tries not to fidget under Luka’s calm stare. “So, I’m guessing you came over here for something?”

“Oh! Yeah. Sorry. I wanted to ask if you’d be able to edit some of Ivan and I’s work in with Toni and Marc’s footage.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” nods Gerard. “Nacho and Sergi got me their finished storyboards so I can tie in your photomontages and get a better sense of the narrative. Do me a favor, though, and make a note of which ones Marcelo’s using for the promotional materials so I don’t overlap.”

“I’ll bring you a flash drive with all of our stuff, does that work?”

“Works for me. Just let me know if there’s anything to watch out for or anything in particular you guys are really proud of, and we’ll make it happen.”

Luka smiles at him and stares just a beat longer before taking off. Gerard watches him go, then gets out his phone to text Sergio.

_ you didn’t put laxatives in my breakfast, did you? _

_ guess u gotta wait and see _

Gerard rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning anyway. It’s getting harder to pretend his friendship with Sergio is strictly platonic, especially after they almost kissed over the weekend. At least, Gerard’s pretty sure that’s what happened. 

They’d had one last drink before he drove Sergio back to his flat, opting to park and walk him to the door instead of just leaving him. Gerard remembers how easy it was to brush his hand over the small of Sergio’s back, how Sergio unlocked the door then turned to look at him, eyes bright, mouth red, tilting his face up in invitation. Gerard remembers leaning down to respond, close, close enough to smell the alcohol on Sergio’s breath. 

If...and that’s a big, stupid  _ if,  _ anything ever happens between them, they’re going to be sober for it. Gerard runs a hand through his hair, cursing when croissant crumbs stick to his pomade. Ugh, just his luck, but whatever. He can’t think about his hair or about Sergio right now. The Clásico footage isn’t going to edit itself.

*

The plan mostly works, until he opens Slack right after lunch.

Gerard scrolls, only half-looking at the activity. The channel is in its normal state, until suddenly every single person from Madrid sets their status to DO NOT DISTURB all at once. He frowns. That’s...weird. 

A quick DM to Sergio goes unanswered and a look around the office shows only the Barcelona team with no one from Madrid in sight.

A message pops up from Leo.

**Lionel Messi:** I didn’t tell you this, but Solari just got fired.

**Gerard Piqué:** Wait, WTF, why?

_ Lionel Messi is typing… _

**Lionel Messi:** Don’t know yet. Just thought you should know. Ramos is holed up upstairs with his team now.

**Gerard Piqué:** Got it.

Gerard can’t help the sympathetic wince. Changes in upper management tend to be a real bastard for work flow; for this to happen _again,_ right in the middle of a big project like El Clásico could mean all kinds of things going on behind the scenes in Madrid, like power struggles, scandals, the kind of headaches none of them need right now.

_ hey, heard about the thing i’m not supposed to know about,  _ Gerard texts to Sergio.  _ you okay? _

He doesn’t get an answer, but he wasn’t really expecting one. 

*

The Madridistas don’t emerge back downstairs until after 6, traveling in a group and whispering in hushed tones. There’s still no sign of Sergio.

Gerard thinks about texting him again. Shit, what does he even  _ say?  _ “Sorry your boss got canned, you have to admit he was sort of a dick though. Anyway, remember how we almost kissed? Let’s do that again, minus the almost.” Yeah, right. 

His eyes burn from too many hours of staring at the screen and Premier Pro is moving slower than usual. Gerard is too ready to pack his stuff and leave, maybe pick up some dinner on the way home-

“Why are you still here?”

Gerard practically jumps out of his seat and just avoids spilling tea all over his keyboard. “Jesus! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Sergio shrugs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I just thought everyone was gone.”

He hits ‘save’ and finally takes a long look at Sergio. The facade would be all but impeccable if Gerard didn’t know to look for the weariness in his bearing or the resigned set to his jaw. Even Sergio’s eyes are dim with contemplation, the look of someone who’s seen too much today.

There’s no point in placating him. or trying to pretend like nothing happened. “Wanna see what I’ve got?” asks Gerard, “or are you sick of work shit for the day?”

Sergio laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “What I want is to sleep for a week and not wake up to a total clusterfuck, but hey. Can’t always get what you want.” He kicks out a chair and sits down. “I have to go to Madrid tomorrow.”

Icy fear sweeps over Gerard. Shit. “For how long?”

“Just overnight. Meet the new guy Zidane, convince him I’m the right man to lead this team and point to all the blood, sweat, and tears I’ve poured into it. Gladhand Pérez. Sleep in my own bed, then come back here, hopefully still employed.”

“Do you actually think you won’t be?”

Sergio laughs again, still devoid of mirth. “Fuck if I know.” He shakes his head and his laugh turns bitter. “You have to be loving this, right? Sergio Ramos, about to get his ass handed to him.”

Gerard doesn’t take the bait. Sergio’s nervous and lashing out; responding in turn won’t do any good. That doesn’t mean the words don’t sting a little, since once upon a time it would have been true. 

“If the brass in Madrid is stupid enough to fire you because the big boys fucked up, they’re even dumber than I thought,” he tells Sergio. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a hothead and an asshole, but you’re an incredible designer and you belong at the head of your team. You deserve everything you’ve worked for, Sergio, and if they can’t see it, then they can get fucked, okay?”

Gerard expects harsh words, something cold and self-deprecating. Instead, Sergio sighs and leans against him.

“What do you need?”

Sergio shrugs. To Gerard’s relief he doesn’t pull away; instead he sags into the touch. “Drive me to the airport tomorrow?”

Gerard nods. “Of course. What time should I pick you up?”

“Six. Flight leaves at nine.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at six.”

*

True to his word Gerard shows up outside Sergio’s building at six the next morning, with two cups of coffee and a bag of xuixos for breakfast. Sergio gets downstairs with his bag at 6:02, bleary-eyed with a hat crammed over messy hair, but he takes the coffee gratefully as he slides into the passenger seat. 

They’re quiet on the drive to El Prat. Gerard’s still waking up and he can tell Sergio is too; as a result they don’t speak much beyond the basic pleasantries. Finally Gerard pulls into the departures terminal and squeezes his Fiat right up against the curb. Heart in his throat, he turns to Sergio, and this  _ can’t  _ be goodbye, it just can’t.

“Safe trip and all that, but…” Gerard reaches out and stops himself, settles his hands awkwardly on the center console. “Promise me you’ll fight, Sese. Whatever bullshit they try to throw at you, pick it up and hurl it right back in Pérez’s face.”

Sergio nods, his eyes dark for a moment before he leans across the car and presses his mouth to Gerard’s. He pulls away too soon, slinging his bag over his shoulder and disappearing into the airport, towards Madrid, towards his fate, leaving Gerard behind.


	10. Chapter 10

The pastries and coffee sit heavily in Sergio’s stomach after check-in. There’s not enough time to catch a nap before his flight boards; he desperately needs another cup of coffee but just the thought makes him nauseous. Even the normally uneventful flight is borderline agonizing. Sergio’s unsure of himself, and he hates it.

He lands in Madrid and switches his phone out of airplane mode to search for an Uber, but a chauffeur holding a sign with his name gives him pause. Sergio frowns. No one mentioned anything about picking him up.

“Hello?” he greets the man holding the placard, “I’m Sergio Ramos?”

“Welcome back to Madrid, señor. Mr. Pérez has arranged for you to be brought right to the office.”

Good. Great. There goes his chance of slipping home for a shower and a chance to get his shit together before being thrown to the lions. Sergio nods, plastering a smile on his face.   
  
“I see. Lead the way.”

Who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky and the driver will opt for kidnapping instead of taking him to the office.

*

In true infuriating Florentino Pérez fashion, the man himself is nowhere to be found when Sergio arrives. His personal assistant Raquel has the grace to look apologetic for a moment before promising to summon him for their meeting. No one mentions Zidane.

Sergio retreats to his office with as much dignity as he can. He closes the door, rests his back against the wood, and stays there. In. Out. In. Out. If someone on the team has to hang for management’s sins...well, then, he’ll march himself up to the gallows. It's what Iker would have done. Hell, it’s what Raúl would have done. He’ll meet the executioner with a smile.

He knows he's being dramatic, but it beats thinking about other things. Like Gerard’s mouth against his.

A sharp knock sounds on the door. Sergio glares fiercely at the intrusion but his tone is all polite neutrality when he calls,

“Yes?”

Raquel pops her head. “Señor Pérez ordered refreshments for the floor. Café con leche for you, with two sugars?”

She remembered Sergio's favorite coffee order. He’s almost pathetically grateful for the small comfort, especially now when there may no longer be a place for him here.

“That would be wonderful,” he says, and Raquel smiles, leaving the door open on her way out.

Sergio moves over to his desk and fires up his iMac for at least some semblance of productivity.. His screen is usually angled to ensure no one can catch him reading the gossip rags, but today he doesn’t care. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a bald man in the hallway. Whatever. _Qué! Famosos_ is calling his name.

Raquel brings his coffee and a reiterated promise to tell Sergio when Pérez is ready to meet. He thanks her, then goes right back to reading. It's trash, it always is, but it's the fun trash that takes up space in his brain for 30 seconds before melting like spun sugar in the sun.

He’s halfway through a particularly stupid article, chuckling at the absurdity of it, when the same bald man from before appears in the doorway. He looks vaguely familiar but it’s unplaceable and doesn’t niggle, so Sergio composes himself and nods to the stranger.

“Are you lost?” he asks. The man’s fashion sense might be, if the skintight jeans cuffed halfway to his knees are any indication.

“No. Just walking around, that's all.” His Spanish is good, lightly accented with something foreign. “What was making you laugh?”

“Tabloid garbage,” says Sergio airily.

“Can I see?”

That's. Weird, but no weirder than anything else today. “Sure, if you want.”

The man smiles, a touch mysterious. He comes to stand by Sergio’s desk; he’s wearing a light spicy cologne that’s too elegant for his clothes. It's a bold choice, one Sergio can respect.

“ _Famosos?_ Really?” The man clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “No _Desportes?_ ”

“My day is stressful enough. If I look at Real Madrid’s standings I might have a coronary,” says Sergio, and the man laughs.

“Too true.”

It's not until after he leaves that Sergio realizes he never got a name.

*

In the end Pérez never deigns to show up. Raquel stops by one last time to apologize and inform Sergio the meeting has been rescheduled until tomorrow. He exhales through his nose and keeps the simmering frustration down. It's not her fault her boss likes to throw his weight around and remind everyone who’s _El Presidente._

He's been ignoring his phone all day. No texts from Gerard, but there are a handful of messages from Marcelo. Nothing work-related, thank God, just memes and the stupid shit he finds on Instagram that always makes Sergio laugh.

 _Not coming back tomorrow,_ he sends. _Pérez is being a dick._

_What else is new? U ok capi?_

_Fine. Tell Isco ur in charge til I get back. I’m going the hell home._

His own flat is blessedly quiet after weeks of sharing space with other people, too quiet since his dogs are back in Seville with his brother Rene. It's good to unwind a bit, but there's no relaxing, not yet. Not with his fate still so far out of his hands. Sergio tosses his phone in his nightstand and doesn't look at it again until he's setting his alarm for tomorrow morning. Still nothing from Gerard.

Sergio ponders for a moment, then settles for texting Messi a quick update. He falls into an uneasy sleep and dreams of blue, blue eyes just beyond his reach.

*

The next morning doesn’t start much better. There’s no one else’s alarm to help wake him up, no coffee already brewing. There’s also no food in the flat, since it didn’t occur to him last night to get more than takeout and beer. Sergio’s entire calibration feels off, still set for Barcelona rather than here in Madrid where it belongs.

His coffee maker gives a pneumatic wheeze as it comes to life. Sergio lets out a silent sigh of relief. Whatever he has to face today, at least he can face it caffeinated, in his favorite suit. A three-piece is probably overkill, but his clothes are his armor even if he’s wearing a perfectly tailored waistcoat instead of a sword. He’s going to need the confidence today.

A quick burst of hair product, coffee poured into a to-go mug, and Sergio’s ready. There’s just one stop to make on the walk to work, the most difficult part of the journey. Old Mrs. Gutiérrez at his favorite café doesn’t suffer fools and she surely doesn’t suffer regular customers vanishing.

As soon as the shop door’s bell chimes she’s across the counter yelling at Sergio. Between the speed and the volume of her tirade he can’t catch every word she hurls at him, but he understands the basics; yes, he’s sorry he left without telling her, no, he won’t do it again, yes, he’ll have his usual, please.

It’s such a _normal_ interaction that it’s relaxing, despite Sergio’s ears still on fire from the scolding. He’s still riding the mini-high when he steps out of the office floor. A quick look shows Keylor, Dani, and Karim at their desks; Pérez is absent and there’s no sign of yesterday’s stranger, so Sergio heads for his office and logs into Slack to check his messages. There’s one from Messi and two from Marcelo.

 **Lionel Messi:** Zidane’s been in contact with my team, just so you know.

So the new boss is doing his due diligence. Sergio can respect that; it’s nothing he wouldn’t do himself. He’s not sure he’d tell Leo, though, if their positions were reversed.

 **Sergio Ramos:** Got it.

_Lionel Messi is typing…_

**Lionel Messi:** Any idea when you’ll be back in Barcelona? I’m starting to get questions about it.

 **Sergio Ramos:** From who?

There’s no answer beyond Messi’s status changing to ‘away.’ Sergio rolls his eyes and goes to answer Marcelo as Raquel appears in the doorway, tablet in hand.

“Mr. Pérez will see you now, Sergio.”

He stands up and smooths the lines from his suit. “Thank you.”

*

Florentino Pérez is just as Sergio remembers him, relatively unassuming until the aura hits, that of a man accustomed to obedience. He greets Sergio with a solid handshake and a clap to the back, all smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sergio. Yesterday’s sudden engagement couldn’t be postponed.”

Sergio brushes off the apology. “Please. I completely understand, and besides, it was good to have an extra night at home.”

He lets the smalltalk wash over him. It’s a familiar dance at this point; smile, not, make polite noises at the right moments. The conversation turns to El Clásico soon enough when Pérez pulls up a projection of the current draft  and in spite of his disquiet Sergio’s enthusiasm for the project seeps through. There’s a long way to go still, but he’s damn proud of his team’s progress and all the hard work they’ve put in. Hell, they’re even making friends with the culés, which deserves a medal on its own.

Eventually he stops talking, turning back with an expectant look on his face. “I’m sure Solari was keeping you abreast of the project, sir, but what are your thoughts so far?”

“Hmm.” A beat of silence, then another one. “So far I find it pedestrian and somewhat underwhelming.”

The criticism stings, but Sergio keeps his expression neutral and his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“So many predictable elements, like your predilection for fashion and Marcelo’s public landmarks,” Pérez continues. “If I wanted to see the Plaça de Catalunya I’d buy a postcard. And the mosaics? Really, Sergio, I’m surprised at you. Gaudí is such an easy well to draw from that it lacks any zing. Practically cliché at this point.”

“It’s what Messi and his team suggested,” Sergio answers through gritted teeth. “Easy or not, it’s emblematic of Barcelona.”

“It’s lazy, and I’m sure Zizou will agree.”

It takes Sergio a moment to realize he’s talking about Zidane. “We’ll just have to ask him, won’t we?”

Pérez’s eyes narrow. “You’ve done great work here, Sergio, but don’t think that puts you above a directional change. There are no untouchables in business.”

“I know. That’s why Raúl and Iker are gone.”

The silence hangs between them. Sergio drops his gaze first even though it burns him to do it, but he’s already said too much for one day. He clears his throat.

“If there’s nothing else, Sir, I’d like to go update my team.”

“Nothing else at the moment, no.” Pérez stands up and Sergio hurries to follow suit. “You’ll be present at the board meeting, of course.”

“Of course. When?”

“Raquel is still coordinating schedules, but she’ll be in touch once it’s finalized.”

Sergio’s blood boils. He’s being played, of course he’s being played, but he’ll be damned if he loses his temper and lets Pérez win. The cranky old fuck wants him gone, he’ll have to do it the hard way. He nods stiffly.

“I understand, Sir. Thank you.”

He shakes Pérez’s hand and offers him one more plastic smile before retreating back into his office. Sergio’s fists don’t unclench until the door is closed and locked behind him; only then does he allow himself to breathe.

*

The rest of the morning passes without incident. Sergio ducks out for lunch at a restaurant down the block, posts himself up next to the cigarette machine, and opens his laptop. Lunch is nothing fancy, just their daily special, but it’s enough. Tasty, probably, if Sergio was actually paying attention.

It’s funny. A month ago he would’ve killed to be back in Madrid, and now that he’s here, he wants to go back to Barcelona.

He logs into Slack. Messi’s status is still set ‘away.’ Gerard is online, though, having a good-natured debate with Gareth in the main channel. He still hasn’t called, or messaged, or bitched at Sergio for not coming back on time-

No, on second thought, fuck this. Fuck it all. Sergio’s tired of playing games, of playing nice with Pérez, of playing like it’s not killing him to be isolated from his team on a project he’s supposed to be co-leading. He’s tired of waiting for Gerard to get over himself, because it was _one kiss,_ and if he didn’t like it he should have said something, god.

He picks up his phone and thumbs through the apps. Grindr’s right there, out of practice in Madrid, sure, but ready to get back in the saddle. Sergio flicks it open.

It’ll be good to have a distraction.


	11. Chapter 11

“You’re here early,” comments Luis when Gerard gets into the office. “You’re _never_ here early.”

“You do hear how creepy you sound, right? You know you’re not supposed to stalk your friends,” Gerard answers, but Luis is undeterred.

“Deflect all you want, man, I’m still right. C’mon, what’s the deal?”

“Okay. Okay, fine. The deal is…” He pauses. Sighs dramatically. “I’m a sleeper agent.”

Luis rolls his eyes, but Gerard is just getting started. “You’re not supposed to know. It’s classified. Top-secret. My code word could get triggered any time.”

“Okay, Geri-”

“Oh my god. You said the word. Must...kill…”

Laughing, Luis flips him off and walks away.

*

There’s nothing from Sergio on Slack, but that’s to be expected. What Gerard doesn’t expect, though, is the radio silence that continues throughout the morning. No ‘landed safe in Madrid’ text, no snide remarks about Pérez or observations about the new guy, nothing. He tries not to read into it too deeply; Sergio’s got a lot to deal with in a single day so if he wants his space that’s fine.

Mostly. Sort of, except for the whole-

Gerard touches his lips, remembering the hurried pressure of Sergio’s mouth on his, gone before he could really appreciate it.

His computer pings with a notification. Gerard’s adrenaline spikes for a second until he sees no, it’s just Leo.

 **Lionel Messi:** zidane wants to talk to u

Gerard smiles a little at the textspeak and lack of formatting. Leo got in late; he must still drinking his mate and getting caffeinated.

 **Gerard Piqué:** uh, okay, but why me?

_Lionel Messi is typing…_

**Lionel Messi:** idk i didn’t ask

 **Gerard Piqué:** great leo thanks

Leo reacts with an eye roll emoji and keeps typing.

 **Gerard Piqué:** tell him to hmu on skype whenever

 **Lionel Messi:** already did

 **Gerard Piqué:** ur a terrible friend

*

Neither Sergio or Zidane deign to get in touch by lunchtime. Gerard heads out of the office around two, prepared to spend his whole meal hunched over his phone until Marcelo catches him.

“Piqué! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“So you’ll still be happy to see me later,” says Gerard, walking away, but Marcelo isn’t deterred.

“I’m going to meet Luka for lunch. C’mon, you can join us.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because Lukita got a table for three.” Marcelo squeezes into the elevator, flashing that damn smile like he’d _never dream_ of inconveniencing anyone. “What do you usually get to drink? Coffee? I’ll have him order for us.”

“I want it on the record that I didn’t agree to any of this,” mutters Gerard. He looks into Marcelo’s eyes and groans. “Yes, coffee.”

Marcelo just beams and shoots off a quick text.

*

It’s not like Gerard didn’t know Marcelo and Luka were together, but they’re so professional at work that he’s all but forgotten until Luka tilts his head up for a kiss hello that’s instantly given. They turn to look at him and he realizes he’s staring.

“Sorry, I…” Gerard trails off into his coffee. “I keep forgetting Los Blancos are actually humans with wants and needs like the rest of us.”

“It’s okay, we forget culés are housetrained,” says Marcelo, and just like that the tension eases.

They split a paella and a bottle of wine, shooting the shit and trading barbs easily. Luka and Marcelo are good company, funny and warm and unafraid to give as good as they get. It’s easy to see why Sergio likes them so much. Luka’s halfway through a story about his years in London and Gerard’s only half-listening, thinking about Sergio back in Madrid.

“-ran into Fernando at Tesco, of all places-”

“Wait, _Torres?_ ”

Both Luka and Marcelo turn to look at him. Gerard blinks. “What?”

“Sergio told you about him?”

The look so intent that Gerard has to fight the edge to fidget. “Yeah? Not the whole sordid history, but enough that I got the gist. I guess everybody’s got That One Ex, huh?”

“Uh huh.” Luka glances at Marcelo, then back at Gerard. “Sure. Anyway, are you picking him up from the airport tomorrow?”

“If he calls me and tells me what time, sure.”

There it is again, that secret couples’ language spoken in eyebrow movements and eye rolls. Gerard doesn’t even try to decipher it.

“Just lemme know if Sese doesn’t get ahold of you, yeah? I’ll call him and yell,” says Marcelo.

They both nod at him like that settles it, whatever ‘it’ is.

*

There’s a missed Skype call notification from “Madrid, Main” waiting on Gerard’s laptop when he gets back from lunch. Zidane. Shit. He hurries to straighten his jacket and double-check that he looks at least sort of professional before calling back.

Zidane answers on the first ring. “Hello, Gerard, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you!”

Static crackles over the line, then the video feed pops up. Gerard’s eyes widen.

“YOU!” It comes out like he’s just discovered the culprit in a murder mystery. “I mean. I remember you, that’s all.”

Zidane laughs. It’s a warm uncalculated sound. “I’m pleased to have made such a lasting impression.”

The laughter transforms his whole face. Gerard’s only had the dubious pleasure of meeting Pérez once or twice, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that Zinedine Zidane is a completely different entity.

“I admit, I would not have recognized you, Gerard. You were much different back in Manchester.”

“I can’t argue that.”

Zidane smiles again, then his expression turns businesslike. “As I’m sure Lionel told you, I’m taking evaluations of the Madrid team and their work. Since the two offices have been working so closely together on the El Clásico project, it seems appropriate to speak with members of the Barcelona team as well. You, in particular.”

Gerard holds his questions back. If he was in Zidane’s place he’d be speaking to Leo only, not to a random guy on the other side. Then again, this is the Madrid office. Trying to follow their logic is an exercise in futility.

“I’m happy to help,” he says.

“Good. Tell me about Sergio Ramos,” says Zidane, and Gerard pauses.

“If you’ve talked to Leo, or to anyone else, you know we have a history,” he says after a moment.

“Oh, I know.”

“Then why would you trust me to tell you the truth about him?”

“Because I think you’re smart enough to know that since I’ve worked in Madrid before, I understand the relationship between the offices. Lying to me doesn’t benefit you.”

“It could, if you fired him.”

Zidane smiles like Gerard gave the answer he expected. “No. Sergio Ramos is the devil you know, whereas if I bring in someone new...or perhaps an old friend, currently in Torino-”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,” says Gerard, shuddering. “What do you want to know?”

Zidane sits back and opens his hands in invitation. “Everything.”

*

The conversation leaves Gerard drained, relieved, and above all, missing Sergio. For all the time he’s spent bitching about him over the years, it’s a marked change to honestly list off his good qualities without an ounce of sarcasm or backhanded inference. Even during their worst periods, there’s always been a grudging respect and acknowledgement, one that’s only grown over the years. Gerard can admit that now.

That doesn’t quell his irritation at still not getting so much as a text from the man, almost nine hours after leaving him at the airport. It doesn’t make sense for Sergio to kiss him goodbye and then go AWOL, unless…

Unless he regrets it.

Oh god, what if he regrets it? Shit.

Gerard rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He hates how much sense it makes, and in some ways that’s worse than if they’d never kissed at all. Their whole friendship, the easy understanding, the late-night texts, gone. All of it, gone.

A ball of paper collides with his temple and jerks Gerard out of his thought process. Huffing, he looks for the culprit, and finds Leo standing next to his desk, smirking a little.

Gerard grumbles, “Fuck you very much,” but Leo just gives him a look. They’ve been friends long enough to read between the other’s lines.

“You wanna come over for dinner?” asks Leo, “or do you wanna say fuck it and go back to yours while I get us some takeout?”

“The second one,” Gerard admits, and manages not to sound overly grateful.

*

Leo shows up at his door an hour later with a bag of Indian food and a six-pack of beer. He’s changed out of his work clothes and into an overpriced t-shirt, hoodie, and ripped jeans that look held together by sheer force of will. He accepts a hug hello, then brushes past Gerard and into the kitchen.

“Sure Leo, just waltz on in like you own the place,” calls Gerard, grinning.

“Shut up or I won’t give you any of the garlic naan,” Leo calls back.

They settle on the couch with full plates and a beer each, flipping through the channels before settling on a Premier League rerun from last week. Gerard’s already seen it, but he’s always happy to watch Manchester United do well, especially if it annoys Leo in the process.

“I can’t believe you like this,” he says in between bites of chicken korma, swatting Gerard away from his samosas. “It’s terrible.”

“You’re just mad you got food poisoning and had to stay here instead of coming to visit me when I got us tickets at Old Trafford.”

“ _Viral gastroenteritis,_ ” corrects Leo. “My doctor-”

“Forbid you from flying, I know, I know,” says Gerard.

They’ve had this same conversation a hundred times and they both know the script by heart. Gerard edges his foot over to his phone resting on the coffee table and presses his toe into the home button as surreptitiously as he can manage. Nada. He thinks he got away with it, until Leo goes into koala mode and curls around Gerard’s arm.

“He’ll call. Maybe not today, but he will.”

Leo sounds so sure of himself that Gerard can’t help but smile for a second. For the first time all day, it feels almost real.


	12. Chapter 12

Friday. Fuck,  _ Friday.  _

Sergio doesn’t have anything against Fridays in particular, but after being stuck in Madrid for three days with the weekend just out of his reach, he’s sick of the day before it even really starts. It doesn’t help that Pérez had poor Raquel call him at 11 last night to tell him about today’s board meeting. She couldn’t give him an exact time, because of course not. Even the prospect of his hookup tonight, some Portuguese Grindr pull with a nice face and a nicer ass, seems like too much work. 

He gets into the office at eight o’clock sharp, hair immaculate, suit crisp, smile radiant. If he goes out, he goes out looking good, damnit. Sergio’s every inch the involved and conscious manager, checking in with his team and settling in with Keylor for a long-overdue gossip update while he waits for some sign of Raquel or Pérez or the Board. The bald stranger has yet to reappear.

Eventually Raquel hurries over to him, long fingernails clicking against her tablet as she types. “They’re ready for you now, Sergio. East wing, conference room three.”

Sergio stands up and smooths his suit. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” she murmurs for his ears alone, and Sergio smiles at her before making his way to the board room. 

The doors are closed and he hears voices inside. Sergio takes a deep breath and lets the moment hang while he shores up his defenses. Fuck these old motherfuckers who hold his future in their hands and decide if he measures up without knowing the first goddamned thing about how much he’s given to this company. They don’t get to break him.

Another deep breath. He’s as ready as he’s going to be.

A quick knock on the door, then Sergio glides inside. Pérez is at the head of the table talking to Secretary Sánchez while the three Vice Presidents compare chin sizes, if the quiver of López’s ever-expanding jowls is any indication. The rest of the Board mill around refilling their coffee cups and chatting; Heras, Aguado, and Cerezo are comparing notes while Señora Miñarro is talking to...oh, shit. Sergio’s heart sinks. 

It’s the bald man from the other day, and from the amiable way he’s talking with everyone, Sergio has a sinking feeling about just who he is. Great. He’s had a new boss for all of four days and the guy’s already caught him slacking. Fantastic. 

Señora Miñarro waves him over. “Sergio, lovely to see you! Zinedine and I were just discussing El Clásico. I understand you two have worked together before?”

“Please, Catalina, I hardly expect him to remember,” says the bald man fondly. “You were a first-year intern from university, Sergio, and besides, I had hair then.”

The familiarity niggles at the back of Sergio’s mind like an itch he can’t scratch. Hair, okay. That doesn’t give him much to go on; it means nothing right up until the second it means everything. 

Zinedine Zidane. Christ, how did he miss this one?

“My colleagues back then all called me-”

“Zizou,” breathes Sergio. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

Zidane laughs and brushes away the apology. “Please. Don’t be. You’ve had other things on your mind over the past 13 years, no?”

“Let’s get started, shall we, everyone?” Pérez cuts in. 

An agreeable murmur passes over the room as everyone settles in to take their seats. Sergio’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

“As you all know, the El Clásico project hasn’t gone as smoothly as we’d hoped. Every ambitious undertaking is subject to change and challenge; this is no different but we don’t settle for mediocrity, and certainly not for failure,” says Pérez.

We haven’t fucking failed, Sergio thinks to himself. We’re not  _ done.  _

“The personnel changes have been regrettable and not without consequence. That ends now, with  _ Monsieur  _ Zidane…” he pauses for the soft laughter, then continues, “Zinedine is here are a personal favor to me, to help steady the ship, correct the course, and ensure the level of success we expect.”

The Board nods along with the speech. Sergio hangs on every word and searches their faces as best as he can for some indication of what the fuck is about to happen.

“Now, Zinedine, the floor is yours.”

That fucking smile is so familiar Sergio could kick himself. He’s never going to hear the end of this one if he gets back to his team.

“Thank you, Mr. President. Esteemed members of the Board, it’s an honor to be back, and I’m humbled by your trust. I’ve been working tirelessly over the past few days to evaluate every facet of El Clásico, from the initial outlines, to the implementation and evolution, to personnel choices, and inter-team dynamics. I wanted to know the soul of the project, and that of its creators.”

“That’s a very astute decision,” puts in Señora Miñarro. “What conclusions have you drawn?”

“To be perfectly blunt…” 

Sergio holds his breath, waiting for the axe to fall. A clean blow, please, nothing messy-

“I’m very pleased with the progress so far,” finishes Zidane. “A lot of hard work has gone into not only the project itself, but into ensuring a successful collaboration, and it shows. Our colleagues in Barcelona share my sentiment; they had nothing but the highest praise for Sergio’s leadership.”

Sergio tries valiantly to keep the shock off his face and settles for a thoughtful nod.

“Our goal is the joint World Design Capital designation, and nothing less,” puts in Heras from the other side of the table. “In its current stages, is El Clásico on its way to meeting that objective?”

“An excellent question, Señor. Any project of this magnitude requires creativity, vision, daring, and the drive to see it all through. In our case, it also requires two teams to put aside their differences and strive for the greater sum. So far, they are all doing just that, and the results are outstanding. I feel very confident standing before the Board and saying yes, I believe El Clásico will meet that objective.”

Heras nods. “I’m very pleased to hear it. We hold your opinion in high regard. Sergio, we look forward to seeing you again for the final presentation.”   


Only years of practice keep Sergio from sagging in relief, Still, he recognizes a dismissal when he hears one, so he stands up and exchanges handshakes around the table, including one with Pérez, who looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.

Zidane accompanies him to the door and claps a hand on his arm. “Get back to Barcelona and keep up the good work.”

Sergio nods. “Yes, Sir!”

*

Heart about twelve times later, Sergio treats Keylor to a long lunch and orders some flowers for Raquel after booking himself an afternoon flight to Barcelona. Then, he promptly takes the rest of the day off to go home and text Marcelo the good news.

_ ur not in charge anymore. El Capitán is on the move. _

The typing bubble pops up right away, followed by  _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  _ and _ AYYYYYYYY THAT’S WHAT WE LIKE TO HEAR _

Sergio grins, and it feels genuine this time. He can finally breathe again Marcelo’s still typing.

_ when’s ur flight back? did u tell piqué to come pick u up? _

The mention of Gerard doesn’t puncture Sergio’s happiness, but it does deflate it a bit. Gerard still hasn’t reached out. Then again, neither has he. 

_ don’t worry about it. i’ll just grab a cab at el prat, call it a business expense. _

_ Sergio.  _

He rolls his eyes.  _ Marcelo. _

_ stop being a dumbass and call ur boyf. he’s waiting. _

_ yeah well so am i,  _ answers Sergio, huffing down at his phone.  _ i g2g. stuff to wrap up here before tomorrow, call me if anything’s on fire. _

Marcelo sends back,  _ this isn’t over ramos  _ with a GIF of a dog shaking its head.

Whatever.

*

After a nap for the ages and a nice long shower Sergio leaves his flat to head down to Chueca and meet his hookup. He finds João (or was it Jorge?) leaning against the bar, dressed to kill in a sinfully tight black top and khakis that hug his long legs, every inch the no-strings fun his profile promised. Sergio ignores the hint of disquiet in his gut, runs a hand over his hair, and approaches with his best smile in place.

“Can I buy you a drink, stranger?”

That earns him a laugh. “I have one already,” says maybe-João, mock-toasting Sergio with his wine glass. “What else have you got for me?”

“Mm, plenty. Want to get out of here?”

A grin and a quickly-emptied glass are all the answer he needs.

*

Maybe-João’s hotel is a stone’s throw away from the bar, but it’s just far enough for a detour down a side street for hungry kisses and some harmless groping. It’s nothing Sergio hasn’t done before; hell, he can do this on autopilot, grab some ass here, grind his hips there, a light warning against leaving marks, no problem. Simple.

By the time they get upstairs he’s covering his erection and maybe-João is palming his ass through his jeans, intent clear. 

“I’d offer you a drink,” says maybe-João, “but that’s not why you’re here.”

Hell no, it’s not. Sergio smiles and reels him into another kiss, savoring the friction. “You gonna give me what I came for, Geri?”

A shadow crosses maybe-João’s face and he steps back. “My name’s Joaquim.”

Shit. He  _ knew  _ it was something like that. The atmosphere’s gone flat and uncomfortable now, nothing some good banter and a blowjob won’t fix and Joaquim’s still talking but Sergio isn’t listening.

Geri.  _ Gerard.  _ Fuck, he’s so stupid.

“Look, Joaquim, I hate to be about 12 different kinds of buzzkill, but…” He jerks his head at the door. “Tonight’s not my night. Sorry.”

“But-”

Sergio does the smartest thing he can think of and legs it out of the room before Joaquim gets a chance to say anything else.

*

He doesn’t want to go home. Thinking about what just happened is embarrassing, but thinking about how much he misses Gerard is worse, so Sergio stops off at a different bar in Chueca. It’s a little too dark and the music is just a little too loud, but the beer is cheap and the bartender is attentive, so it’s perfect. By the time Sergio leaves he’s well on his way to shitfaced, nothing a couple swigs from the bottle in his freezer won’t fix.

It does. Yeah, it does, vodka on a beery stomach tastes like bad decisions and regret. It’s kind of awesome, but there’ll be hell to pay in the morning. 

Speaking of morning…”Wha’ time’s it,” mutters Sergio, fumbling for his phone. He jabs at it until the screen illuminates and shows 12:41. He dials Gerard’s number. Ring. Ring. Ring, then a click and the voice he’s ached to hear.

“Sergio?”

He smiles. “Hey, Geri.”


End file.
